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Authors: Jennifer Jane Pope
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of them, Peter Farren,
actually lived in the village itself. In theory, he was a
wheelwright, but he had not worked much in that trade since old
John Tyler the wagon maker died and his daughter passed the
business on to a cousin in a village five miles to the south. Every
week or so, Farren would ride down and work for a day or two, but
in between he barely earned a living labouring on the surrounding
farms. His reputation as a drinker and a sloth meant that even this
work was sparse as he was only ever hired during the busiest parts
of the season.
The same was
more or less true of the other four. One, George Prentice, was the
youngest son of a sheep farmer. He scrounged enough from the old
man to drink and gamble, and did only as much as was necessary to
persuade Harry Prentice not to kick him out. Alfred Diggins went
from village to village and from farm to farm performing odd repair
jobs and ditch clearing. His brother, Edward helped him
occasionally and from time to time went off to the city for
unspecified reasons.
The fifth man was originally a Londoner, Thaddeus Gilbert.
What he did for a living no one really knew for he was never seen
to work locally. It was rumoured he had originally been a thief in
the capital and that he kept a hoard of gold coins hidden somewhere
around the small cottage he rented from James Calthorpe's father,
the miller Francis Calthorpe. Like the others, he spent much of his
time in the Black Drum , but unlike them he never seemed short of a shilling or two,
and would stand his drinking cronies rounds when they were short of
cash.
Jacob Crawley
would not have had to offer this seedy band much by way of
inducement to join him, Harriet reflected grimly. There was not one
among them who might not have sold his own grandmother if the price
was right, and they would see acting as the witchfinder's bodyguard
an easy way to make extra drinking money.
Harriet
blinked, and looked up as yet another shadow loomed over her. It
was Thaddeus Gilbert again, the third time he had come to her in
what was probably no more than two hours, although time was now
something Harriet had no way of judging accurately. He stood over
her, unbuckled his belt and dropped his breeches, revealing the
massive penis she now knew only too well.
'Get your legs
open, slut,' he commanded in a raspy voice without further
ceremony. 'Can't waste a good pussy while it's still available.
Mind you, if your grandmamma comes up with the money, we might get
to enjoy each other's company for a day or so longer, eh? I hope
she does, sister, for both our sakes. I seen too many pretty
wenches dancing on the end of the rope to find the prospect as good
as the alternative. Now lay ye back, and try to act like you're
alive this time, otherwise I'll like as not take my belt to your
arse!'
Sarah was
almost relieved when Ross returned, even though she knew what must
inevitably follow. How long she had remained spread-eagled and
impaled upon that terrible seat she could not tell, but the sound
of the blood pulsing in her temples seemed to have grown both
louder and slower, and her shadowy prison felt as if it had slipped
into a timeless eternity of its own.
'Still
comfortable on the throne, I see,' Ross remarked dryly.
Sarah peered
out at him wondering just what sort of man could treat a fellow
human in this fashion, and apparently even find humour in her
plight. Had she not been gagged so efficiently, she knew she would
have felt compelled to launch upon him a stream of invectives that
would have had both her parents turning in their graves. As it was,
all she could do was sit and glare back at him.
'By the time
you leave here,' Ross said, moving closer to her, 'you'll think
nothing of opening your legs to any man that commands you.' He
reached out and with the backs of two fingers traced a feathery
line down the length of her gaping sex lips.
Before she
could stop herself, Sarah felt a tremble of spiky heat run from her
groin up her
actually lived in the village itself. In theory, he was a
wheelwright, but he had not worked much in that trade since old
John Tyler the wagon maker died and his daughter passed the
business on to a cousin in a village five miles to the south. Every
week or so, Farren would ride down and work for a day or two, but
in between he barely earned a living labouring on the surrounding
farms. His reputation as a drinker and a sloth meant that even this
work was sparse as he was only ever hired during the busiest parts
of the season.
The same was
more or less true of the other four. One, George Prentice, was the
youngest son of a sheep farmer. He scrounged enough from the old
man to drink and gamble, and did only as much as was necessary to
persuade Harry Prentice not to kick him out. Alfred Diggins went
from village to village and from farm to farm performing odd repair
jobs and ditch clearing. His brother, Edward helped him
occasionally and from time to time went off to the city for
unspecified reasons.
The fifth man was originally a Londoner, Thaddeus Gilbert.
What he did for a living no one really knew for he was never seen
to work locally. It was rumoured he had originally been a thief in
the capital and that he kept a hoard of gold coins hidden somewhere
around the small cottage he rented from James Calthorpe's father,
the miller Francis Calthorpe. Like the others, he spent much of his
time in the Black Drum , but unlike them he never seemed short of a shilling or two,
and would stand his drinking cronies rounds when they were short of
cash.
Jacob Crawley
would not have had to offer this seedy band much by way of
inducement to join him, Harriet reflected grimly. There was not one
among them who might not have sold his own grandmother if the price
was right, and they would see acting as the witchfinder's bodyguard
an easy way to make extra drinking money.
Harriet
blinked, and looked up as yet another shadow loomed over her. It
was Thaddeus Gilbert again, the third time he had come to her in
what was probably no more than two hours, although time was now
something Harriet had no way of judging accurately. He stood over
her, unbuckled his belt and dropped his breeches, revealing the
massive penis she now knew only too well.
'Get your legs
open, slut,' he commanded in a raspy voice without further
ceremony. 'Can't waste a good pussy while it's still available.
Mind you, if your grandmamma comes up with the money, we might get
to enjoy each other's company for a day or so longer, eh? I hope
she does, sister, for both our sakes. I seen too many pretty
wenches dancing on the end of the rope to find the prospect as good
as the alternative. Now lay ye back, and try to act like you're
alive this time, otherwise I'll like as not take my belt to your
arse!'
Sarah was
almost relieved when Ross returned, even though she knew what must
inevitably follow. How long she had remained spread-eagled and
impaled upon that terrible seat she could not tell, but the sound
of the blood pulsing in her temples seemed to have grown both
louder and slower, and her shadowy prison felt as if it had slipped
into a timeless eternity of its own.
'Still
comfortable on the throne, I see,' Ross remarked dryly.
Sarah peered
out at him wondering just what sort of man could treat a fellow
human in this fashion, and apparently even find humour in her
plight. Had she not been gagged so efficiently, she knew she would
have felt compelled to launch upon him a stream of invectives that
would have had both her parents turning in their graves. As it was,
all she could do was sit and glare back at him.
'By the time
you leave here,' Ross said, moving closer to her, 'you'll think
nothing of opening your legs to any man that commands you.' He
reached out and with the backs of two fingers traced a feathery
line down the length of her gaping sex lips.
Before she
could stop herself, Sarah felt a tremble of spiky heat run from her
groin up her
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